


Like Marbles on Glass

by JehanFerres



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Badass Jehan, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Post-Revolution, some people survive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:38:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JehanFerres/pseuds/JehanFerres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The remaining Amis de l'ABC: Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Jehan, and Feuilly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I wrote (more) canonverse, which should come as a surprise because I usually don't write Canonverse. But here you are. I started this ages ago because I got bored and it just kind of happened that I stumbled upon it again. Jehan is probably going to spend at least half of this unconscious and I don't know who is going to take charge because Combeferre is in no state to do so but???
> 
> Title is from "Exile, Vilify" by The National.

Whatever had happened here, it wasn't pretty. Combeferre was trying to fight his way through the fog of pain clouding his mind and pull himself off his front to go and find somebody (anybody) else; his head hurt and his stomach and chest hurt and... Was he lying on his front? This felt like his front, but he rather hoped that it wasn't. His stomach churned when he tried to move and-

“Combeferre?” a rather weak voice near him asked. “Do you need help?” Was that Joly? Yes. Yes, that was Joly. Joly, his wonderfully reliable hypochondriac who was sure to come up with some comment about how much of an idiot Combeferre had been. Or, come to think of it, was that more like Combeferre himself? He wasn't sure; his brain itself seemed to be painful and dear GOD was he in a huge amount of pain. “Are you... are you even alive...?” Joly asked, in a fearful voice. Combeferre groaned and Joly made an excited squealing noise. “Can you get up?”

“I doubt it,” Combeferre told the ground under his arms. Joly nodded and helped him roll over onto his back; at first Combeferre couldn't see at all because of how bright it was, but really he was in no mood to do so. He groaned, prodding himself in the stomach to ascertain what the damage was. “Are you hurt?” he asked, staring up at Joly, who was conveniently blocking the sun out. Joly shook his head.

“No. I... fell backwards off... off the Barricade. Lesgles pushed me. So I wouldn't be hurt; the worst I have is bruises.” He paused, looking away from Combeferre over towards what remained of the Barricade. “He's over there,” he said. “I... don't want to go over; it's too horrible to look at; after he pushed me he slipped and I made as though to catch him or at least to break his fall, but he dislodged a few chairs as he fell, and... and something else fell on top of him; I didn't see what. The last I saw or heard of him was him screaming at me to help him, but I... I couldn't.” He sniffed, staring at the ground. “Courfeyrac found me, when he came back round. We tried to move some of it off him but when we managed to get to him it was obvious he was dead and... and neither of us could bear to do anything more.”

“Courfeyrac?” Combeferre asked, pushing himself up on his elbows. That hurt like hell, so he fell back down again. “He's still alive?” he continued. Joly looked over at him, wiping his eyes, and nodded slightly.

“Yes. And Feuilly. We haven't been able to get into the Corinth, and we don't know if Jehan's alive.” Combeferre made as though to comment – to say it was his fault if the little poet was dead and to say that he was sorry fucking hell he was so sorry because he was so stupid and selfish; he was a fucking stupid, selfish idiot who didn’t deserve anything, but Joly’s expression stopped him dead. “Courfeyrac and Feuilly went over to see if they could... if they could at least find Jehan's body.” He squeezed Combeferre’s hand gently. Combeferre, despite usually hating being touched unless by Enjolras, Courfeyrac or Jehan, squeezed back. “I don't know how far I can walk and you're in no state for it,” he said, gesturing to Combeferre's chest, which (as Combeferre hadn't noticed) was bleeding profusely. Combeferre pressed his hand over the deepest of the wounds, hissing slightly with pain.

“Have any other bodies been found?” he asked.

Joly nodded. “Bahorel. And... Courfeyrac and I reckon on Enjolras, Jehan and Grantaire, although we've no way to confirm that. I'm sorry,” he said softly, keeping a hand over Combeferre’s chest to staunch the flow of blood. Combeferre tried to keep still and keep bleeding. “It doesn’t look like your lungs are damaged, at least – your ribs and sternum stopped the bayonets but the wounds are… they look quite serious.”

Combeferre nodded. “And the other two?”

“Courfeyrac has a bullet wound to the hip, but it’s superficial; he insisted that I was to stay here –” with the bodies “– while he and Feuilly went to see… to see if they could at least find Jehan’s body,” he said softly, his head dropping forward. Combeferre nodded and pressed his lips into a thin line, reaching over to put his hand over Joly’s.

As they spoke, however, there was a scuffle of feet, and a hat fell off from somewhere above the Barricade. Combeferre rolled onto his side to reach for a weapon, thinking that they were next, but Joly raised a hand, and gestured upwards.

Combeferre realised that it was, in fact, Feuilly. The fan-maker picked a safe way down the Barricade, not seeming as though he wanted to jump or slide down as had become tradition. Joly gave him a nervous but questioning look. “Good news and two pieces of bad news,” the fan-maker informed the two of them, pausing to help Combeferre roll onto his back. “Good news is that Jehan's alive, and the bad news is that he's comatose.”

He paused, seemingly to gather himself. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and one forearm seemed to be set at an un-natural angle. Combeferre made a mental note to get it set properly. “The other piece of bad news is that Enjolras and Grantaire are dead as well. It looked as though they died together and at least relatively happy and without too much pain.” He then turned back towards the Barricade. “Courfeyrac!” he called nervously. “Are you alright up there; do you need any help?”

There was a brief pause before Courfeyrac replied: “I'm fine. Just trying to make sure I don't drop Jehan.” Joly seemed to think for a moment, before hauling himself to his feet and walking towards the Barricade. There were a few seconds of pause before the other two realised what he was doing, and Feuilly almost instantly tackled him back down onto the ground.

“Stay here, or I will knock you out,” Feuilly ordered. Combeferre was, honestly, not especially surprised. Feuilly had appeared frantic when he had returned.

“Would you rather I die, or Courfeyrac and Jehan die?” Joly asked, equally determined. “I've already caused the death of one of our group today; I won't allow my inaction to cause two more.”

Feuilly's face fell, and he wrapped his arms tightly around Joly's waist. “Don't say that, Joly; it wasn't your fault. You couldn't have helped it any more than he could.” Joly had his head buried in Feuilly's shoulder now, and his arms around the fan-maker's neck.

“But... he DIED, Marcelin! He... he died, and I didn't do anything to try to stop it and it's MY FAULT!” he sobbed. Feuilly shook his head, removing one arm – the one that wasn’t broken – from around Joly's waist to stroke his hair. “I... I could have done something; I could have done something and he might be here, and... and...” Joly completely abandoned any attempts at words, sobbing unabashedly now. Feuilly looked helplessly towards Combeferre, as Courfeyrac carefully climbed back down the Barricade, Jehan in his arms, unconscious and bloodied. He looked like he may have been considering saying something to Joly, but stopped when he saw that he was crying, instead going over to address Combeferre.

“What do I do?” he hissed. “Joly's...” He stared over at the other medical student with wide eyes. “He nearly died twice,” he said, looking down at Jehan. “Once when we were leaving, and again when I was trying to climb back up the Barricade.” He groaned, and gently settled Jehan on the ground beside Combeferre, who somehow (somehow!) managed to push himself upright, or at least as upright as he could, to look Jehan over for injuries: his hip was bleeding, as well as his chest, and he was covered with bruises.

Courfeyrac had pressed his jacket against the wound to try to stop the worst of the bleeding, but it looked relatively ineffectual: worse than that were the chest wounds – four of them, presumably from a bayonet, and one bullet wound going through his left shoulder. Both his eyes were blackened, the thumb of his left hand was twisted at an uncomfortable angle, obviously dislocated and broken, and his wrists, collarbones, neck and cheek were bruised. Combeferre feared the psychological damage the sweet-hearted poet would suffer worse, however; he would be left with more scars than would be immediately visible from his injuries alone. He wasn’t sure what other damage there was, and, honestly, he hardly wanted to consider it. Something similar was echoed in Courfeyrac’s eyes, albeit less obviously.

“You know something and you aren’t telling me,” Combeferre said. Even with serious wounds and horrible pain, he was able to glare at his friend, and Courfeyrac reacted as he usually would have.

So, there they were. The remaining Amis de l'ABC: Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Jehan, and Feuilly. Nowhere to go and no friends to speak of, each one thought he would have been so much better off dead, to do away with the pain and fear.


	2. Chapter 2

They had somehow managed to get back to Combeferre's flat at Necker (Joly wasn't entirely sure how this worked, but there they were), and all of them were now trying to organise what they were going to do (all of them minus Jehan, that is: he was unconscious, and none of them really wanted to try to bring him round, not to mention that they probably wouldn’t be able to – Joly occasionally started to think it would be about as easy as raising the dead, but then stopped thinking this.

Joly himself was wrapped up in a blanket and sitting on the floor, and Feuilly and Courfeyrac were leaning against each-other. Combeferre was sitting on the bed beside Jehan, who was utterly unconscious. Combeferre didn't look overly bothered, but, to Joly at least, it was obvious that if they left him alone he would probably break down crying.

Joly supposed that he would need it.

Joly pulled his blanket a little closer around himself and sighed. This was not a particularly soft blanket, but it was better than having no blankets; he was almost certainly in shock and having blankets to cling on to helped a little. He was still scared, still shaking and still miserable for lack of his Eagle. He was curled into the blanket with his nose pressed into it, feeling as though he would cry. Courfeyrac and Feuilly were wrapped up in a different blanket and also each-other (he wasn’t entirely sure why Combeferre had so many blankets) in such a way that it wasn't obvious where one ended and the other began, but at least they had each-other; Joly had nobody, not any more.

Bossuet was dead.

Musichetta would never want him, not after what he'd been through.

Combeferre was too deeply embroiled in trying to make sure Jehan didn't die, and even Feuilly and Courfeyrac had each-other; if Bossuet were here, he would probably be sitting with Joly and trying to prod him out of his bad mood, or he would just hold him until it passed if that didn't work. But, of course, there was no Bossuet, because he was dead and Joly had killed him through his inaction.

He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself and pulled it up over his head, hoping that none of the others who were conscious would hear him crying, but after a couple of minutes, somebody sat down beside Joly, and wrapped an arm around him. For a moment, the young student was torn between telling them to leave him alone to wallow in self-loathing or to lean against them. He eventually decided upon the second of these two options, curling against whoever this was who was sat beside him. Hating to think that he was betraying Lesgles, who had always taken this role when he was upset in the past: even Combeferre, who he had been close to before he met Bossuet, had never had a huge amount of use at comforting people.

However, he was fairly certain (owing to the height of the person and the way they smelled, and the fact that Courfeyrac and Feuilly were still talking on the other side of the room, only barely audibly) that Combeferre was now sat next to him. He still had his arms wrapped around himself, and he still felt as though he shouldn't be crying; Bossuet hated to see anyone cry, particularly Joly; he said it wasn't right that somebody so kind and agreeable should have to cry, and would comfort Joly until he calmed down and try to find out what was wrong. And he usually succeeded. But having Combeferre at least there, even if he wasn't doing anything other than sitting with him, helped.

As long as Combeferre didn't resent him (his best friend was dead; his lover would probably follow if they didn't do something soon, and Joly was crying over something which probably seemed to him to be utterly insignificant), Joly would probably be okay; the thought of Combeferre being angry with him for any reason hurt like hell.

Courfeyrac was saying something about their situation to Feuilly, and although he wasn't really listening, he could pick out words, and could just about follow the conversation: they thought that Jehan may well be the next to die, if not him. Joly reckoned they were talking about him now; he wanted to tell them that it wasn't really possible to die of a broken heart, but he wasn't so sure about this anymore; the loss of his best friend and confidant and sometimes-lover hurt more than he cared to admit. Their crass behaviour went completely unchecked by Combeferre, who (presumably) sat beside Joly, with an arm around him, letting the other student lean into him.

However.

It hardly seemed as though Combeferre would be able to come up with something productive for them to do; not while he was injured (Joly would have to change his bandages soon) and not while Jehan was in the state he was in. Joly had the least injuries, thanks to Bossuet (Courfeyrac had been shot, and had fainted, and Feuilly had a broken arm), and Combeferre was in no state to become anything of a leader, injured or not. Joly was in no state to lead either; he was convinced he was useless at everything he tried to do, but he could at least take temporary charge, until Combeferre had recovered and Jehan was better and-

That was never going to happen.

He finally managed to summon enough of himself up to unwrap himself from his blanket, eliciting a slightly surprised look from Combeferre, who looked as though he was, inwardly, at least, in as bad a state as he was: he wore it better, but he looked like he was going to cry if this carried on for too much longer.

Which it would.

Even though he, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Feuilly and Combeferre were alive, Joly completely accepted that most of his friends were dead, and that he would never see any of them again. The realisation of this, while it did not make the thought any worse, somewhat helped: at least, if they were dead, the five of them remaining could try to get through the deaths of their friends; the aftermath of the attempted Uprising, together.

Of course, it would never be that simple.

A routine developed: Courfeyrac and Feuilly talked. Combeferre never left Jehan's side. Joly cried.

Of course, Joly didn't hold the fact that Courfeyrac and Feuilly were, at least, somewhat contented against them. He was glad that they had managed to find solace in each-other. However, some small part of him wished that he could have that, at least for a minute, with Bossuet again. He knew it would never happen.

He slept.

He dreamed.

He didn't remember the dream he had. It was something about the Barricade; something about Bossuet. All he remembered was blood and screaming and carnage and…

And being pushed.

He didn't want to have to remember, that was all he knew. He didn't want to have to remember hearing and seeing his best friend die and being powerless to do anything about it. He didn't want to have to remember Combeferre screaming at Enjolras again or see Courfeyrac shove Bahorel out of the way only for Bahorel to fall to his death into the midst of the enemy. He didn't want to have to remember the blind panic he felt when he heard Courfeyrac tell Combeferre that Jehan had nearly died twice.

He didn't want any of this.

He may or may not have woken up crying after having that particular dream, and when he woke, he may or may not have seen Combeferre lying beside Jehan, and Courfeyrac leaning against Feuilly and seen that, despite it all, they had somebody. He had thought, for a foolish second, that maybe there would be somebody there to listen to him; to let him cry onto them. He had, stupidly, expected Combeferre to care about somebody other than himself (because, really, that was what it boiled down to; Combeferre was only worried about Jehan because he didn't want to be lonely). He had expected Courfeyrac and Feuilly to care about somebody other than each-other, and that had not paid off in the slightest.

All he could hear was the last thing Musichetta had said to him and Bossuet: "You'll die, won't you? You'll die, and you'll leave me here. Alone."

This held so much more truth than Joly wished it did. Bossuet was gone, and he was alone. Feeling incredibly small and unwanted, Joly opened the door, slunk down the corridor, and left Combeferre's rooms at Necker entirely. He didn't know what he wanted to do; go and beg Musichetta to take him back; go and commit suicide.

In all honesty, the second option seemed so much better than anything else which Joly could think of at the moment.


	3. Chapter 3

He had now: five francs (taken from Combeferre's coat's pocket), the clothes (now washed) on his back, and a dead best friend. None of these would get him anywhere. However, he used one and a half of these five, illegitimately obtained, francs to buy three red roses: ostensibly for Musichetta, but really so that he wouldn't forget; so that she couldn't forget. A large, rather ragged rose was him. The smallest (really, it was still a bud, tightly-folded and delicate) was Musichetta. The largest, which was virtually perfect, except for a small hole in one of the petals (it was barely visible unless Joly looked in exactly the right place) was for Bossuet. It made sense for it to be that way, really.

The walk was longer; quieter; than Joly remembered, having made the journey from Necker to Musichetta's flat, but that was probably for lack of Bossuet, rather then the Rue Saint-Denis actually getting any longer; even Joly knew that that was completely implausible. Usually, he and Bossuet would talk unendingly about anything that popped into their minds: sometimes happenings at Necker (although that only when Joly was particularly frustrated with it), and, on more than a couple of occasions, about Jehan and Combeferre: this particularly after they had first become lovers; Joly had started off confused, but then realised that he was being a hypocrite and it was the exact situation, more or less, that he, Musichetta and Bossuet were in.

Although he had only really worked this out when Bossuet had grabbed him and kissed him extremely thoroughly, as though to say, "See?". Holy had made out as though he was angry with Bossuet for that, but had privately done the same thing to him later. They had always walked from Necker; it was one of their bizarre little traditions, and they had never quite shaken it. Bossuet was always too hard-up to afford the fares, and Joly thought that the public omnibuses were hotbeds of disease and debauchery, and therefore refused to travel on them, apart from with Combeferre.

However, all of that was different now. It was different, now that Bossuet was dead, and now that she probably wouldn't take him back. Of course it would be like that; he was a stupid little boy who had gone and nearly got himself killed, and he had been the reason for his best friend's death; he was the for their best friend's death. Everything good was gone now, and he didn't really know if anything would ever be as it had before; it just hurt too much to think of everything going back to how it had been before, because it just felt wrong to going back to being in love with her without Bossuet: he was as much a part of their relationship as the moon was a part of the sky.

Still.

Clutching his roses (he somehow hadn't destroyed them, but the palm of his hand was bleeding. Well, it wasn't really bleeding; little beads and ribbons of blood were dripping down from his hand and it hurt. But he didn't really care; not that much. He was standing outside the door to Musichetta's flat, his arms wrapped around himself and his hand dripping blood onto his clothes.

He stayed there for a couple of minutes, trying to talk himself out of it but also trying to talk himself into it. He'd never know, after all: not if he didn't try. But he was scared that she would just never want to see him again and tell him to leave. Combeferre would probably notice the missing money soon; he'd never want to see him again, and, as Joly kept reminding himself, he had nobody else to go back to. Combeferre was the only person who cared enough to come to help him, and he'd...

Joly was a despicable person, and there was no other way to describe himself but that.

And that, really was why he knocked on the door. He waited for a few seconds, and was considering leaving, when the door opened. It took her a couple of seconds to recognise him, but she instantly pulled him in, closed the door and wrapped her arms tightly around him when she did realisewho he was; that he wasn't dead. She had obviously been crying; in all honesty, she had the look of somebody who hadn't stopped crying since... well, since Joly and Bossuet had been declared missing, and Joly hated himself for that; for making her cry and worry like that.

"'Chetta, I... I'm so sorry I scared you like that..." Joly muttered against the top of her head. Musichetta just squeezed him a bit tighter and shook her head. He trembled, his arms still around her waist, and he really couldn't tell if he was comforting her or if she was comforting him. He just didn't understand how they were still alive; how they were still breathing and still able to hold each-other with Lesgles dead. She had probably thought he was dead, and, really, he was. The empty feeling left by Lesgles' death hadn't faded, and seeing 'Chetta again had just restarted the pain. "I'm so sorry. Lesgles is-"

"Dead. I... I know," she choked against his chest. "I went to see if your bodies were there. I was so scared when I couldn't find yours; it didn't occur to me that you might still be alive. But I found and claimed his body. He's... he's going to get a proper burial, I promise he is." She paused and looked up. "Is... is it just you? Who survived?"

"No. Combeferre also survived. And... and Courfeyrac and Feuilly. And Jehan, just about," he explained. He knew she didn't know who all of his friends were and didn't recognise all of the names, but she seemed to be reassured by what she was being told. Relieved, Joly rubbed her back and stroked her hair for a few seconds.

"Feuilly...?" Musichetta asked. "He's... he's that little red-headed spitfire, isn't he? The one who told you to shut up once?"

"The one who is fascinated with Poland, yes. He tells everybody to shut up, and we do the same back. I... think he's taken charge. Since... since Enjolras died, Combeferre's been in no state to lead; he's... he's too upset, and Jehan being unconscious for so long hasn't helped. He's done practically nothing but cry for a long time. He... he thinks we won't notice, but we do; we all do. I think Feuilly was going to try to talk to him, but I doubt whether he's actually going to get anything out of him. Not unless Enjolras c-comes back to live, and... and... and..." He was crying again now, and unabashedly. He couldn't bear the thought of having to continue without Enjolras, Grantaire, Bahorel and Lesgles. It just seemed impossible; they had always been there. Bahorel had been constantly egging him on, Enjolras offering firm reassurance, Grantaire helping him to drown his sorrows.

And Lesgles.

Lesgles had always been there. Always. He had always been there to provide a shoulder to cry on when Necker just got too upsetting, and Joly couldn't take another death; he had always known exactly what to say to get Joly to snap out of a hypochondriac fit of terror (because, really those were one of the most terrifying things in his life, when he felt as though he was going to die and if he didn't do something everything would overtake him and he felt like he was dying), and just there to provide reassurance.

But now he was gone.

Now, Lesgles was gone, and Joly didn't know what he would do without his poor, poor Eagle there to guide him.

It didn't bear thinking about.


End file.
